


thirty day drabble challenge

by eoghainy



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: M/M, thirty day drabble challenge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-03 11:07:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12747087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eoghainy/pseuds/eoghainy
Summary: hi i was challenged to do a thirty day drabble challenge n this is all the trash i will be writing for the next 28 days.





	1. 11 / 15 / 2017

**Author's Note:**

> hi i was challenged to do a thirty day drabble challenge n this is all the trash i will be writing for the next 28 days.

_Theme: Desperation._

> “I think our last kiss was meant to be quick and chaste. But after the first touch of his lips, fire leaped up and roared through my belly. My fingers yanked him close, digging into his back, and his arms crushed me to him as if wanting to meld us together. I knotted my fingers in his hair and bit down on his bottom lip, making him groan. His lips parted, and my tongue swept in to dance with his. There was nothing sweet or gentle in our last kiss; it was filled with sorrow and desperation, of the bitter knowledge that we could’ve had something perfect, but it just wasn’t meant to be.”

_— Julie Kagawa._

 

Fake it until the bitter end seemed to be the common saying. Watchful eyes would always scan upon them, always witness their most _private_ moments no matter what they did to stop them. No matter if one was flushed deep in the other, or whether the other was on his knees, praising the others body as if it were a temple and he were the simple beggar.

Corkscrews swept into both of their line of sight, getting long and unruly. Long fingers twisted amongst the thick strands, blunt fingernails curving into a solid scalp. The only indication that the aforementioned corkscrew curls owner made was a small grunt; a noise of slight discomfort, but also one to encourage his lover. The only light to his life. The sun to the eternal darkness that this fucked up world seemed to retain.

Blood washed at their feet. The thick pools lapped at their boots, the waves caused by slight disturbances farther down. Neither seemed to notice, as they were too preoccupied in their current situation that all that they had eyes for were each other. It was sickeningly sweet, how when one shifted to avoid discomfort, the other would move to provide stimulation and attention to another area. How when one when beg to be touched, begged to be brought to the edge, the other would comply, as if he were only too happy to do such a thing.

“ **Last day on Earth.** ” The man had said, his voice a rasping southern drawl. “ **Given up. Guns are bein’ put down. We’re done.** ”

Howls of protest had split the air, but the leader had just turned away, shame clouding his face. Even the man, as peaceful as he was, raised his voice in anger; casting searching looks over at the fox – haired male beside him. Calm acceptance had glimmered in their dark depths, as if he had already seen their fate and wasn’t going to fight it.

“ _No more fight left in me_.” The man explained with a half – hearted shrug. “ _Lost too much to lift another gun, or weapon, for that matter._ ”

They found themselves here because of those words. Plump lips had claimed thinner ones in a surge of grief; whole conversations being passed the two of them without speaking a single word. They’d lean foreheads together when one needed to catch their breath, waiting patiently for the other to recover, before returning back to the **_desperation_** that claimed them. The wild desperation that kept them glued at the mouths, glued at the hips, ready to die together and not a moment too soon.

“Aaron,” the fox – haired man whispered. The frantic kisses had left him breathless. “I love you.”

Bright blues met liquid brown. “I always had a hunch.” Came the hoarse response, cold fire licking up his insides. If death was going to come, then he’d go down tasting the sweetest taste he’s ever had the privilege of letting across his tastebuds; Eric.

Tongues were just starting to dance again, the rhythm comforting and familiar to both. Muscles exploded as they traced along teeth still retaining the taste of the cheap beer they had been tasting, delving deeper and deeper each time. Eyes were scrunched shut on both ends, desperately attempting to relive this moment. Let it be the last. This one had to be their last. Nothing else would do.

When death finally came from a gun, taking them both out with one bullet, the duo fell without much complaint, knowing that they wouldn’t come back.

And that their last moments had been lived in _desperation_ and love.


	2. 11 / 16 / 2017

_Theme: Shock._   

> “There is only one kind of shock worse than the totally unexpected: the expected for which one has refused to prepare.”

— _Mary Renault._

 

The gasping of a man who had experienced something so terrible filled the room. It was as if he could not seem to get his breath under control; could not seem to get _himself_ under control. His airways felt as if they were closing in, as if a hand made of steel was crushing his windpipe and making it impossible for air to flow. If that were indeed the case, then he’d be choking; a blue – faced mess that could barely stand.

Instead, he was a trembling shell of a man that needed all the help that he could get.

A hand was firm upon his upper arm, guiding him up the stairs, quick to catch him when his feet caught upon the carpet and made to send him sprawling upon the hard stairs. A voice as sweet as honey was murmuring in his ear, telling him that he was going to be okay; telling him that now that he was here, now that he was _home_ , he was going to be just fine.

If the logical brain that belonged to the diplomat worked, then he’d laugh. Instead, bright blues gaze without seeing, a numbness spreading throughout his body.

He’s left to sit on the bed, staring without seeing at his grimy hands, ragged breaths tearing through him. He obediently raises his arms as his shirt is stripped off, and then his tank. He doesn’t make any sort of noise of protest when his boots are unlaced and removed, and as his pants are unbuttoned and pulled off. He’s stripped naked, and whereas some would see this as a moment to feel shame, he feels nothing.

Running water catches his attention as he’s guided on shaky legs to the bathroom, walking straight into an envelope of steam.

_Wait, not so much hot water. Don’t use so much hot water._

He longs to chide, to speak these words out loud, but his tongue is frozen; muscle paralyzed from the events that partook before. Just thinking of them again causes for his hands to shake, the tremors running violently throughout his weakened body. He sways unsteadily, and those hands catch him; pressing reassuringly on the small of his back, on his hips, helping him into the shower and propping the swinging door open.

Fully clothed, the fox – haired male enters the shower with him, seeming not to care as he reaches for a drenched washcloth. In soothing strokes, he cleans the blood and the grime from off of his lovers face, liquid brown pools that he called eyes gazing with worry into dulled blues.

Any other day, the idea of the two of them in the shower, one fully clothed and the other completely naked, would have seemed utterly erotic; now it just fueled the idea that something was wrong. That things would never be the same.

Toned legs cannot seem to hold up the diplomats body. With a gasp, he sinks down onto his knees, the hot water burning his skin. His eyes tightly close, ignoring the dirty and bloodied water that swirled slowly down the drain.

“ _Aaron_?” The voice sounds distant. “ _Talk to me, talk to me_.”

Teeth chattering from the **shock** and not from the water, coupled with his hoarse voice made it hard to understand him. “A – A – Abraham . . . G – Gl – Glenn . . .”

“What happened to them?”

He stares at his hands. The trembling hands that did nothing to stop it. The trembling hands that _could not_ stop it. That were powerless. That were forever going to be stained with their blood. Arms encircle his body, barely noticing how the other man knelt beside him, looking for more information but not wanting to pry.

One word, supplied from a brain slowed by _shock_ , escapes his chapped lips.

“ _Negan_.”


	3. 11 / 17 / 2017

_Theme: Confession._

> “To confess your sins to God is not to tell [God] anything [God] doesn’t already know. Until you confess them, however, they are the abyss between you. When you confess them, they become the bridge.”

_— Frederick Buechner._

 

Bony wrists rested upon the hard material of the pews, head inclined. Knees were settled upon the rests that were unfolded, the crunchy foam doing nothing for the pains of discomfort that shot through his muscles.

“Say your prayer louder,” a sharp voice snapped, and the boy winced, trying to abide by what his mother wished.

“ _Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy Name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven.”_ He spoke, trying to put feeling into the words. If he didn’t, his mother would certainly be upset. _“Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.”_

“Good,” his mother murmured, and he took that as a sign to continue on.

_“And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.”_

Bright blues opened, looking up upon the woman who had raised him since he had been born. In vain he sought for her approval, heart sinking when she only turned away; her nose upturned into the air. 

“You will do well not to hesitate next time.” Was all the praise she offered him.

* * *

“Father, it’s been . . . about ten years since my last confession.”

“Sit, my boy.” Gabriel’s voice was gentle, soothing even, as Aaron took in the sights of the make – shift confessional. Anxiety dwelled inside of him and he hesitated, nervously looking around for a stampede of nuns to come out of the shadows and beat him with their rulers for being such a bad Christian. 

“What do you have to confess to me?” The black sheet that separated them rustled with the gentle force of Gabriel’s voice.

Hesitating, Aaron picked at a hangnail on his thumb, eyebrows drawn. “I . . .”

He could feel Gabriel’s gaze piercing through the fabric. “Take your time, my boy.”

Clearing his throat, teeth sinking into his bottom lip, he forced the words from his mouth. “I wish to confess my sins, and my darkest thoughts. I want to . . . have someone to hear it, to tell me that I’m not . . . _wrong_.”

Gabriel’s steady silence was an indication for him to go on.

“I’ve killed people. I’ve thought about killing people, too; it’s so hard for it _not_ to cross your mind when you live in a world like this. I’ve cheated people. I’ve lied. I’ve taken advantage of people. I’ve senselessly led others to their deaths. I’ve thought about betraying Rick, thought about leaving Alexandria and Eric, thought about just leaving everyone to their fates and not looking back. I’ve considered _treason_ because I . . . I don’t know. Maybe I’m a coward.”

He picked harder at the hangnail, his breath shaky. 

“I don’t want to live this life. I grew up learning that suicide was a sin; but if it’s the only way out of this living hell, then who am I to not consider it? I just don’t know what to do anymore. My faith has shaken, and I, I am just . . . a coward. I go on solely for one person and that’s it. I fight out of guilt, not out of devotion. Doesn’t that make me just as bad as those Savior’s out there, or the Wolves?” 

He shakes his head, corkscrew curls bouncing with the movement.

  
“Father, I’m not just confessing my sins. I’m looking for advice. I don’t know what to do with myself.”

Gabriel is silent for a moment longer before he speaks. “Confessing to begin with takes strength, Aaron. Strength that not many have. You have strength that no others have. Look at what you have managed to do in such a short time; you have brought an entire _group_ to a safe haven, and now you are working to _protect_ the people who belong here. The Saviors and the Wolves be damned. Everyone in this settlement looks up to you, they admire you. You have no reason to confess any of this to me.” 

Guiltily, Aaron shifts, worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth. “I just . . . needed to get it off my chest. _Confess_ it to someone who could at least relate. You understand that, right?”

The Father pulls back the curtain peering at him with concerned eyes. “And your confession has been heard, my boy.”


	4. 11 / 18 / 2017

_Theme: Need_.

> “I’m oxygen, and he’s dying to breathe.”

_— Tehereh Mafi._

 

Heads that were gently leaning against each other moved out of their comfortable position only too soon. Their makeshift need for close, _easy_ comfort was lost within a moment due to a burning need. A need that had swelled from nowhere, but was embraced as soon as it arose. Bright blues and liquid browns had met, and an unspoken thought seemed to pass between them; moves that were fluid and well – matched had brought two separate beings into one.

Long, spidery fingers pressed against the hard lines of his chest, a gentle force being applied. He was guided back onto the couch, his shoulders brushing against the stiff arm before he was pressed more solidly against it. A weight was settled on his pelvis, familiar and arm, yet still managing to remind him of how quickly the feelings between the two have changed.

Soft murmurs that could have been prayers to their neglectful God, or cries of his name sounded by his ear. Teeth would nip at the lobe, rolling the tender skin between damp, warm lips. Answering sounds would leave his lips; breathy gasps, surprised groans, and pleads for _more, God, Eric, **more**. _

Clothes were shed fairly quickly, a certain raw hunger pulling them together. Hips remained flush; lips never parting, even for breath.

“ _Need you,_ ” the voice that belonged to the fox – haired male was low, “ _need you so badly._ ”

The hesitation that either still had was lost. Preparation was a quick, messy event; his lean, agile partner was already all riled up, rasping out order after order that guided his companion into moving into him.

As they were bonded, united as one once again, foreheads moved to be pressed together. Bright blues gazed into liquid browns, watching as the other would react to subtle movements. Before long, garbled versions of his name were being spoken from kiss – swollen lips.

“ _Aaron, fuck, Aaron!_ ” He’d cry in his heavenly voice, sending shivers down the pinned males spine. He did not voice a complaint when nails curled into his skin, or when a cavity tightened around his most sensitive member; forcing a guttural cry out of him as they both, together, went spilling over the edge.

It was rare that they were joined like that from a raw, desperate, burning _need_. But when they were, they were closer for it. For after their needs were satisfied, after they were cleaned up, the couch that had bore witness to their union was used for a different type of need; a cuddly, sleepy sort.


	5. 11 / 19 / 2017

_Theme: Protection._

> “I found him carefully studying me, his lips a thin line. “Has anyone ever taken care of you?” he asked quietly.  
> “No.” I’d long since stopped feeling sorry for myself about it.”

_— Sarah J. Maas._

 

“What are you doing?” A voice screeched, dangerously close to the diplomat’s ear. “We don’t have _time_ for this.”

“Protecting you!” Came the snarled reply. Bright blues are watching as the dead circle closer around them. “Go, now, while there is still a chance to escape!”

“I’m not leaving you.” That voice growled, and a back pressed firmly against his own. The scent of cinnamon filled his nostrils, and drawing strength from it, he relished in the feel of his lover fighting beside him and raised hell.

* * *

After their desperation, their sudden need to be wrapped up in each other before something else went wrong, the sense that something was wrong never went away. Even with the fox – haired males eyes gazing into his, hiding nothing, he could practically _taste_ that something was upon his lovers mind.

“Alright,” he says, “give me hell, Eric. I know you want to.”

There was nothing but concern for him in his gentle voice when he spoke. “Why don’t you let people take care of you? Not just that — let people _protect_ you?” There was no malicious intent behind his words, only genuine curiosity and concern.

His teeth gently bites into his tongue as he struggles to think of an answer, immediately repressing the one that popped up into his mind. “Because there’s no need for it. I can take care of you, and I can take care of myself.”

“That’s not what I meant. You’re guarded. You never let anyone see you vulnerable, and you fight to protect yourself from everything; including me.”

The desire to shut himself away from the prying questions arose, but Eric had been his partner for a long, long time. Eric knew almost everything about him; from his awful mother, to his ignorant father, to his experience with religion and the real world.

“You _know_ why. I’d rather protect you and myself, rather than let anyone else protect me.” _Because the ones who were supposed to do that let me down._

As if Eric sensed that Aaron was finished talking about the subject, he fell silent, letting Aaron regain his sulky silence.

 


End file.
